They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reverfion takes up ready praise;
At least their own, their future felves applauds ;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time, lodg'd in their own hands, is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's, to Wisdom they confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they poftpone:
'Tis not in Folly, not to fcorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promife is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry stage: when young, indeed,
In full content, we, fometimes, nobly reft,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty man fufpects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Refolves; and re-refolves; then dies the fame.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon clofe; where pafs'd the fhaft no trace is found.
As from the wing no fcar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel:
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
Can I forget Philander? That were strange;
O my full heart!- -But should I give it vent,
The longest night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the lark liften to my midnight song.
The sprightly lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's sharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breast,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the ftars to liften: ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' distant ages: wrapt in shade,
Pris'ner of darkness! to the filent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah! could I reach
your ftrain! Or his, who made Mæonides our own. Man, too, he fung: immortal man I fing; Oft bursts my fong beyond the bounds of life; What, now, but immortality, can please? → had he prefs'd his theme, purfu'd the track Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd, where I fink, and fung immortal man
How had it blefs'd mankind, and refcu'd me!
THEN the cock crew, he wept"-Smote by that eye,
Which looks on me, on all: that Pow'r, who bids This midnight centinel, with clarion shrill,
Emblem of that which shall awake the dead,
Roufe fouls from flumber, into thoughts of Heaven.
Shall I, too, weep? Where, then, is Fortitude?
And, Fortitude abandon'd, where is man?
I know the terms on which he sees the light;
He that is born is lifted: life is war;
Eternal war with Woe. Who bears it beft,
Deferves it least.-
-On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee,
And thine, on themes may profit; profit there, Where most thy need. Themes, too, the genuine
Of dear Philander's duft. He, thus, tho' dead,
May still befriend-What themes? Time's wond'rous
Price,
Death, Friendship, and Philander's final scene.
So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite difengag'd,
The good deed would delight me; half-imprefs
On my dark cloud an Iris; and from Grief
Call Glory-Doft thou mourn Philander's fate ?
I know thou fay'ft it: fays thy life the fame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time,
(O glorious avarice !) thought of Death infpires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our gold?
O Time! than gold more facred; more a load
Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wife.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are fquander'd, Wisdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Hafte, hafte, he lies in wait; he's at the door;
Infidious Death! fhould his ftrong hand arrest,
No composition sets the pris❜ner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Faft binds; and Vengeance claims the full arrear,
How, late, I fhudder'd on the brink! how, late,
Life call'd for her laft refuge in despair!
That Time is mine, O Mead, to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity.
But ill my genius anfwers my defire;
My fickly fong is mortal, paft thy cure.
Accept the willthat dies not with my ftrain.
For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? Not
For Efculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou think'ft is folly to be wife too foon.
Youth is not rich in Time; it may be
poor;
Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher-aim'd, ftill nearer the great mark
Of men and angels; virtue more divine.
Is this our duty, wifdom, glory, gain?
(These Heav'n benign in vital union binds)
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal funs infpire? Amusement reigns
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live:
And is it, then, a trifle, too, to die?
Thou fay't I preach, Lorenzo! 'Tis confeft.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ?
Is it not treason to the foul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amufe, when med'cines cannot cure?
When spirits ebb, when Life's enchanting scenes
Their luftre lofe, and leffen in our fight,
As lands and cities with their glitt'ring fpires,
To the poor shatter'd bark, by fudden storm
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there;
Will toys amufe? No; thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies feem duft upon the fcale.
Redeem we time?Its lofs we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports ?
He pleads Time's num'rous blanks: he loudly pleads
The straw-like trifles on Life's common ftream.
From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee?
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